


One Last Call for Alcohol

by kitkatt0430



Series: The Whistle Blower [4]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Gen, Hartley and Laurel start working out their differences, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Laurel has been drinking a lot lately, Mental Health Issues, Past Abuse, and everyone seems concerned, but she's starting to realize she needs to, getting away from Starling city is doing her good, she doesn't want to admit its a problem yet, survivor's guilt, they talk about Tommy's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-24 02:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21331024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatt0430/pseuds/kitkatt0430
Summary: Hartley does not like being around people who are drunk.  He's made that very clear, it reminds him of his abusive ex and makes him intensely uncomfortable.  So when Laurel shows up at his apartment at far too early in the morning, smelling clearly of alcohol, he is very tempted to just shut the door in her face.Instead he opens the door a little wider and lets her inside.  Gives her water and then coffee and, as Laurel sobers up a little, the two of them talk about life and death and Tommy Merlyn... and maybe a little about addiction too.
Relationships: Hartley Rathaway & Laurel Lance
Series: The Whistle Blower [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1299332
Kudos: 20





	One Last Call for Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> In which Hartley and Tommy were friends, Cisco is the one who discovered Harrison Wells duplicity with STAR Labs, and Laurel's come to Central City to help them stop the accelerator from ever turning on.

Hartley did not like being around people who were drunk. He wasn't shy about stating this boundary. If someone around him drank more alcohol than Hartley was comfortable with? He'd leave. Or kick them out if they were at his apartment. Certainly he did not let them into his apartment if they showed up at his door at 1:42 in the morning and rang his doorbell obnoxiously until he opened the door to see who was being an asshole this early in the morning.

But these were unusual circumstances and Laurel Lance was standing at Hartley's doorway.

On the one hand, Laurel was drunk and Hartley suspected that she was capable of throwing a much harder punch than he could. On the other hand, she was crying incoherently about Tommy and apologizing a lot and Hartley was kind of worried what his neighbors might think if they happened to poke their head out to see what all the commotion was. Less because he was worried about what they'd think of him and more because he didn't want Laurel to wind up in the drunk tank for the night because someone called the cops on the drunk girl lost in their apartment complex's hallway.

Sighing to himself, Hartley opened the door further and ushered Laurel inside.

She nearly faceplanted on the way to his couch. Twice.

"Laurel, what are you doing here?" he asked once she'd gone relatively quiet.

"Mom was complaining about how much I was drunkening? Drinking. Mom was saying I was drinking like dad used to. Had to get out, couldn't listen to that anymore. But I... I had maybe one or two too many at the bar and I couldn't face her," Laurel's voice was slurred, but for the most part her speech was understandable. Probably had more than one or two too many, though, if Hartley's past experience with Laurel's ability to hold her liqueur was any indication. "I'm sorry. I know you don't like... Tommy always said you didn't like it when people. Drank. More than a few." She started to stand back up. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't... I should've gone home. To mom's. Even if she lectures something awful. I just..."

"You're right. I don't like it when people are drunk around me," Hartley responded mildly, tugging her back down on to the couch with ease. "But I'm glad that you did come here, since you're not exactly familiar with Central City. Where's your phone?"

Laurel dug around in her purse until she pulled out her phone and presented it to him with a flourish. "Gonna call me an uber?" she asked, laughing a touch bitterly when he took the phone from her.

He'd seen her unlock it a few times before, so it only took him two tries to get the unlock code right. He pulled up her contacts and found her mother's name easily enough under the emergency contacts. Hartley sent off a short text, letting Dinah Lance know that Laurel was at his place, drunk but safe, and he'd send her home later once she'd slept off her hangover. "No," he told Laurel. "You'll be staying in my guest room tonight. Lucky you, Thea went back to Starling today, or you'd get the dubious honor of being the first person to sleep on the couch. It's comfortable for sitting, but I'm not sure I'd recommend it for more than napping."

A slow smile came over Laurel's face. And then she hugged him and Hartley immediately stiffened up because... she smelled of alcohol and was invading his space and this was not good.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she muttered, burying her face in her hands as she pulled away. "You're being nice and I'm screwing up."

Hartley took a slow, deep breath, and let it back out equally slowly. "Laurel, I think you'll find I'm rarely ever nice."

"Tommy always said you were too hard on yourself. Prickly exterior, soft fuzzy interior. like a... a... porky-pine." She frowned. Wrinkled her nose. "I said that wrong, didn't I?"

"A little, yeah. Porcupine." He took another slow, deep breath. "I'm going to get you a glass of water. I expect you to drink the whole thing, okay?"

"Okay."

Retreating to the kitchen, Hartley retrieved the glass of water and then took a few extra minutes to set his electric kettle boiling. He didn't have a coffee maker, but he did have a french press and a half full canister of Folgers for guests. Coffee sensitivity meant Hartley could enjoy coffee, but a few hours down the line his insides would make him regret it. So he pulled out a tea bag for himself, set up the french press for Laurel, and then, finally, took the water glass back to the woman on his couch.

As he'd told her to do, Laurel drank the whole glass. "Oh, wow, I guess I was thirsty," she muttered. Then scrunched her nose. "Your, uh... your bathroom is over there, right?" She pointed to his bedroom door and he reached over to adjust her aim towards the actual bathroom door. "Oh, sorry. I'm going to, um..." she got up and hurried to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

Hartley followed along just to be sure he didn't hear her retching into the toilet. She didn't sound like she'd hit the throwing up stage of her hangover yet - with any luck she'd skip it entirely - and he went back to the kitchen to finish the coffee and tea up. 

By the time Laurel was settled back on the couch, Hartley was setting out the hot drinks.

"Coffee doesn't actually sober someone up," Laurel said quietly, picking up the coffee mug to stare morosely at its contents.

"It will stop you from passing out on the floor before you're ready to go to bed," Hartley mused, drinking his tea. "Assuming, of course, you're interested in staying up talking for a while?"

Laurel drank the coffee. "The water helped," she offered.

"Yeah, dehydration makes the symptoms of alcohol worse. Feeling a little more clear headed now?"

She nodded. "I am sorry I just showed up like this. I wasn't... I wasn't thinking."

"Because you were drunk." Hartley tried to make a statement, not a judgement. But he also knew he came off as a judgy little asshole most of the time anyway, so he doubted the attempt did much good.

She rolled her eyes in response and then winced, the headache setting in as the more fun effects of the alcohol wore off.

"You got drunk at Tommy's funeral. Not trying to be an ass, I'm just pointing it out. Twice doesn't make a pattern... but if your mother is complaining about your alcohol intake over the last week..."

"That makes a pattern?" Laurel snorted softly. "I don't have a problem with alcohol, Hartley."

"Not yet," Hartley agreed. "But you've got a lot of anger and grief inside of you and alcohol is an easy drug to self medicate with. And that combination can lead to an alcohol problem." Hartley tapped his fingers lightly against his teacup. "I drank a lot when I was dating Earl because it was easier to deal with his drunken outbursts when I was too numb to care that he'd just bruised my face again. I drank enough that it was affecting my grades as much as being with an abusive dick was. I drank enough that when I moved in with Tommy and stopped drinking, I went through a fairly minor period of withdrawal. I wasn't an addict. I didn't crave alcohol or worry about falling off the wagon afterwards... but just the smell of it for a long time was enough to give me awful flashbacks. These days? I can have a beer or two socially every now and again and be okay. But addiction works differently for everyone."

"It's hard to imagine Tommy having an apartment with no beer in it," she said after a moment, changing the subject or at least nudging it off course. "Or wine. But... he did that for you, didn't he?"

"Yeah. I mean, sometimes he'd bring back a six pack, but he made sure I was going to be okay with him having one before he'd actually drink any. And he always stuck to the exact number he'd said he would have beforehand. The whole time we lived together, I don't think he got drunk once." Hartley smiled faintly, remembering how it had been. "That was also when he stopped doing marijuana and the occasional party drug. He was trying really hard to be supportive and keep me from self destructing. I think... I think he blamed himself for Oliver and Sara and trying to make up for them with me."

"He did blame himself," Laurel admitted. "He said as much. That if he'd been a better friend, he'd have gotten Oliver help instead of enabling him. Then maybe Oliver wouldn't have gotten on that boat with Sara... or at all."

"Or he might've gotten on that boat with you and Sara would be the drunk Lance sister in my apartment right now." Hartley shrugged when she shot him a look. "I told you I'm not nice," he reminded her. "In an ideal world, Oliver would've gotten therapy in college to deal with how his parents many infidelities fucked him up. He'd have been a better boyfriend to you and maybe it would've worked out. Maybe it wouldn't have and you'd have ended up with Tommy eventually anyway. If we constantly worry over what might've been, that's living in the past. And living in the past gets us no where in the present."

"He told me not to go." Laurel's voice shook. "He told me not to go into work that day. But I did. I was angry because he... he'd broken up with me and I didn't understand why. And I... I'd slept with Oliver after breaking up with Tommy and it felt like a betrayal. And if I'd just... if I'd just listened..."

"I was trying to get Tommy to go to therapy," Hartley told her. "He has... had depression. And an inferiority complex where Oliver was concerned. I don't know why he broke up with you either, but I know what its like to have anxiety brain tell me life is fucked. Depression has to be pretty similar, telling him lies like you'd leave him for Oliver eventually anyway, so he might as well get out while it'd just cause him heart break, not destroy him. He loved you Laurel. If you could forgive him for breaking up with you, he'd have forgiven you for sleeping with Oliver when you two weren't even dating anymore. But Laurel... Tommy wasn't well. And he needed help to get better.

"And now it seems like you're not well either. I would like to help, if you'll let me."

"I'm not sick," Laurel muttered petulantly.

"I am. Anxiety disorder. I'm going to be taking medication for it for the rest of my life. There's nothing shameful about that either. But it's still easier when its someone else. When its not you whose brain is fucking up and getting its chemical production levels wrong."

Laurel sniffled and rubbed at her eyes. "Drinking makes me feel less empty. I should be sad and I am, but then it all just flows away and I'm numb. You drank to be numb... I've... I've been drinking so I'll stop being numb." Suddenly restless, Laurel stood up and started poking about Hartley's things, looking at his movie collection and video games, hovering over pictures.

Hartley sat back and let her, finishing his tea and contemplating making another.

"You think I'm depressed too, don't you?" Laurel asked eventually, returning to the couch but not sitting down yet.

"Depression and alcohol do go hand in hand pretty often," Hartley said with a shrug. "So, yes, I think you're depressed right now. And self-medicating."

"And you pity me."

"Please tell me you're not hoping for a rebuttal there." Hartley raised an eyebrow when she gave him a sharp look. "I've never understood the difference between sympathy and pity save that most people can tolerate the former and view the latter as somehow condescending. And I'm a condescending person, so I might as well call what I feel pity."

Laurel actually laughed. 

"Tommy's death isn't your fault, Laurel. His death is firmly on Malcolm's doorstep. But with Malcolm dead... it's harder to hate the dead than the living. The dead don't care when you scream at them." 

"You say that, but why didn't the Hood save Tommy?" Laurel demanded. "It's Malcolm's fault, but the Hood..."

"Is one man," Hartley interrupted. He decided not to mention the likelihood that the Hood was Oliver. "He didn't know Malcolm's full plan until it was too late. Hell, I heard the Hood saved Malcolm's life with Tommy's help when Malcolm won that philanthropy award he didn't deserve. The Hood didn't know about the second bomb and he didn't know Tommy was in danger or that you were in danger or that Moira Queen's attempt to do the right thing at the last minute would start a riot. He did what he could and neither of us know enough about him or his methods to judge if he did it well or badly. The Hood tried to save Tommy. He didn't get there in time, but he tried despite knowing Tommy was Malcolm's son and that... that means a lot to me."

Laurel began to cry again and she slumped back onto the couch. "He did try," she whispered. "He said Tommy was already..."

Hartley wondered what it must've been like for Oliver, to go all that way into a building that was shaking apart at the seams only to find his best friend was already dead. A sort of nauseated feeling curdled in Hartley's stomach and he touched his face to find tears there. 

He was so tired of crying...

Rubbing Laurel's shoulders lightly, Hartley waited patiently for them both to stop with the tears.

"What was it like to start therapy?" Laurel asked after a while.

"Frustrating. I wanted to just pick a therapist and start working on my issues so that I could get better and not need therapy anymore." Hartley wrinkled his nose at the memories. "I didn't understand what therapy was really supposed to be about and I didn't want to admit that I'd been having problems with anxiety since junior high. My first therapist was a terrible match for me which made me nearly give up on the whole endeavor. But Tommy turned on the sad eyes and so I picked another therapist and tried again. And when the second time was not the charm, I ended up in group therapy for abuse victims for a while, which helped a lot more than the one on one therapy for dealing with the aftermath of Earl. But it didn't help with my anxiety which was at an all time high and so I tried one on one therapy one last time... and this time I found a therapist I could work with. I wasn't happy about being recommended to a psychiatrist for anxiety medication right up until the medication started working and I realized I couldn't remember the last time I actually felt so relaxed.

"I'd been so wound up and tense for so long that it was like... being able to breathe for the first time in years. And, honestly, that alone was worth all the hassle and frustration of finding a good therapist."

"So what is therapy supposed to be about, then?"

"It's not about making yourself be happy or stopping yourself from feeling things," Hartley told her. "It's about learning to deal with those feelings in a healthy way."

"That makes a depressing amount of sense."

Hartley snorted in amusement. "Want me to put on something from my Netflix queue? I'll probably wind up falling asleep no matter what we choose, but..."

"No, its... it's late. Or early. It's ridiculously early. Go sleep in your bed. I'll find my way into the guest bedroom soon enough." Laurel grabbed both their empty cups and headed to the kitchen to place them in the sink for later. "I'm sorry about waking you up so early."

"It's okay," Hartley was surprised to find he meant it. "So, how drunk are you really?" he asked, morbid curiosity finally taking over.

"A lot drunker than I seem," she admitted, leaning against the counter. "I hold my alcohol well." She grimaced. "I get that from dad. Which is what is so concerning to mom."

"Did you know alcohol withdrawal includes symptoms like anxiety, shaking hands, headaches, insomnia..." Hartley trailed off when she scowled at him.

"How'd you ever manage to tell you were going through withdrawal?" Laurel asked snidely.

"Didn't until after the withdrawal was over," Hartley admitted. Anxiety and insomnia were normal for him and he had just been glad the headaches were 'normal', not migraines. And then slowly it all let up until Tommy brought beer home and Hartley ran to the bathroom to throw up from the smell.

Tommy'd dumped the whole six pack down the kitchen sink and ran coffee grounds through the disposal to clear the reeking scent of alcohol away. But sitting in the bathroom, perched on the edge of the tub, it had finally occurred to Hartley just how much he'd been drinking while living with Earl. And how close he'd come to dropping out of college, drinking his life away. That was when he started insisting Tommy had saved his life.

"Good night Laurel," Hartley said, heading to his room.

"Good night, Hartley."

* * *

"Morning," Laurel slurred, coming out of the guest room and collapsing onto the couch. "The guest bed is comfy."

"Thanks," Hartley replied dryly. "Your mother's on the way to pick you up," he added, smirking when she grumbled at him. "She's bringing breakfast, so you should have enough time to go shower. I'll lend you something to wear if you'd like to stop smelling like a distillery entirely."

"Someone spilled their drink on me as I was leaving the bar," Laurel told him. "Do I really smell that bad?"

"Yeah. You do. Note I'm staying over here in the kitchen?"

"Alright, alright. Clothes and shower it is then. Are you offering to wash my stuff and give it back later or stick it in a plastic bag?"

"Plastic bag. You can wash your own distillery." He finally walked over, dropping a plastic bag with sweat pants and a baggy t-shirt on her head. And then he snickered when she groaned. "Feel lucky I didn't pull out my wavy cup."

"You're somehow both a monster and an angel all at once," Laurel grumbled. But she took the bag and the clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. Hartley could hear the pipes hiss as water rushed through them.

The water had just turned off by the time Hartley was greeting Dinah Lance at the door and thanking her profusely for bringing him a London Fog instead of coffee. Also for the apple fritters.

"I don't suppose you watch _Doctor Who_," Hartley asked and Dinah smirked.

"I know, I look like River Song, right?"

"It's uncanny. But it sounds like you hear that a lot from your students?" 

"Yes, they're all Whovians, not that I can blame them. The show is rather fun to watch. Hartley... thank you for looking after Laurel last night." Dinah sighed quietly, rubbing a hand over her face.

"I think maybe we needed to talk some anyway. We sort of... avoided each other at Tommy's funeral."

The bathroom door popped open and Laurel came out, hair hanging damp around her face... which bore a sheepish expression as she caught sight of her mom.

"Hi..." Laurel fidgeted for a few moments and then blurted out, "I'm going to look for a support group. For people dealing with grief and lost... lost loved ones. And... I'll drink less. If you're that worried, then maybe it's something I should worry about too."

Dinah smiled broadly and walked over to wrap her daughter in a hug. "I'm so proud of you, Laurel."

Quietly, and perhaps a touch smugly, Hartley smiled and drank his tea latte. 


End file.
